


Das Reich der Zwei

by airafleeza



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV Second Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, or at least a brief mentioning of, super soldier tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Even when we weren't,” Bucky explains, “we were."<br/> <br/>  <i>Or, </i>how Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have always been a nation of two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Das Reich der Zwei

**Author's Note:**

> I have two people I really need to thank for this. [Jannet](http://jannet-bird.tumblr.com), for reading this fic when it was still gross and fresh and young, and really helping me think I could finish this and post it. And [Becka](http://captsrgnt.tumblr.com/), the bae-ta (ha ha), who was an absolute dream and would tenderly remind me to send this to her to beta. Thank you guys for not letting me get in the way of myself!!
> 
> The title is taken from the same book as the quote below. I highly recommend it, mostly because I am problematic Vonnegut-loving trash.

“Only one thing counted—The Nation of two. And when that nation ceased to be, I became what I am today and what I always will be, a stateless person.”

\- Kurt Vonnegut, “Mother Night”

* * *

 

“He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

Sam’s words make sense, but they don’t dull the insistent need to follow after Bucky.

You just want a peek at his life, to make sure he’s safe. Drag your eyes from his feet, up his body and settle on his face. Compare the Bucky that saved your nose from getting broken a second time when you were eight years old, to the one glistening at the docks, the one in blue with darker eyes and a new, firm mouth.

To stack them all up, loving them all in different ways, and start the journey of finding out how this Steve Rogers you’ve become in the twenty first century will love this Bucky Barnes in the present.

Hopefully he’s less tired, with a warm meal. Kind people surrounding him, even if they aren’t you. That would be okay.

Maybe Bucky would smile at you, pick up where the two of you left off. Try to make sense of this tangled new future together— your future (could be).

Or maybe he’ll wisen up, realize you’re always going to be in over your head. He’ll choose to do something good for himself. He’ll keep to this new thing he’s found, his new life without a trace of you. A precious life, safe and miles away.

 

* * *

 

The mornings are harder than they were six months ago, before the events in D.C. You never slept a lot before the war, not with all the fevers and laundry list of ailments to keep you from drifting peacefully, never needed too much sleep after the serum. (Barely any sleep necessary so you'll always be able to keep functioning. Huh.)

This was a blessing after the war, after the defrost. But the war was never really over, was it? Not for you. Not for your nightmares when everything was still fresh. You didn’t dream for 70 years, and it’s like your brain is trying to make up for it now. Images flashed, the feelings intense and you could swear at first you were awake, Bucky had only just died— there was time to go back to the Alps, check for him, find his body, it’s the least you could do—

In the beginning, when you would wake up, it hurt to realize whatever’s left of Bucky on this earth is frozen in constant snow and winter, nothing but shattered bones.

 

* * *

 

(You find out later you’re not too far off.) 

 

* * *

 

The mornings are harder than they were six months ago because after New York, something in you broke down and you finally accepted it. You were alone, you were an outsider. Steve Rogers had no one left to remember him, really, and Captain America couldn't sit by and just take orders. Everything had dulled with this acceptance; the ache was manageable. You could get by.

And you mean it, you think, when Natasha comes over, when Fury asks. You didn’t mean it all those years ago in front of your apartment in your new funeral clothes, and Bucky knew it, but you think you could mean it now.

(Though now that you think about it, the sudden chance to move to the SHIELD headquarters in D.C. seemed a little too convenient, didn’t feel like charity at the time when you desperately grabbed for the first chance to escape New York.)

After the Avengers, the nightmares slow down and only leave faint impressions of dread most of the time, if you dream at all. They don’t feel like you’re living through the war that is your life again; these impressions lack the intensity, the vivid color, all the red that they held before. Forms without meaning, you think, and that sounds about right.

When you dream of Bucky grabbing your hand for the last time in your private quarters, nerves on a razor’s edge and eyes wild and alive in a way that brings attention to the pulse behind your ears, you can’t feel his touch anymore. Can’t remember it and it’s a damned curse, you think. It’s like almost being kissed, and you hate that you never stepped over that line. He was right in front of you, breath electric and encouraging while yours is still in your lungs— useless organs to this day, and you never—

(These mornings are slower than others as you try to remember skin on skin, but it’s slipping through your fingers, like—)

 

* * *

 

Once SHIELD falls, once the adrenaline dies down, the nightmares are back in full-fury.

In the morning your body throbs, muscles strained from clenching, and if you’ve broken a headboard or two, shattered your bedside lamp, Sam doesn’t mention it. 

Sam will ask you someday if you’re okay, but he can read you like a book. There’s no need to ask right now.

You feel more trapped in your body than you ever did before. You want someone to wake you up. But there is no serum for this one. There is no magic cure.

 

* * *

 

Here is the fact of the matter: you belonged to Bucky, but he was never yours.

 

* * *

 

Bucky looks sickly when you find him (because who would you be if you listened to sound advice?). You’ve been coping with the nightmares for two months, considered going on the road to track Bucky. Or just get out. Get some air.

(“You start running they'll never let you stop” is another lifetime, and you’re too exhausted and you’ve grown up enough that you can’t be that kid anymore.)

Instead, you take the train to Brooklyn on a hunch with nothing to lose, go to the old neighborhood. Bucky is there between familiar buildings, rooting around in a narrow alley. His hair is longer and more tangled as it tries to escape the dusty blue hat he now wears. When he moves, he seems off-balance like his left side is weighing him down. His right arm shoots out to steady himself against the fire escape.

There’s no denying Bucky Barnes looks worn, but before you even try to help him, he calmly straightens himself up. His eyes are red, and they linger on you with disbelief and _longing_ , but he tells you to go home.

 _What home?_ You want to ask, but you know he won’t understand. Not yet.

The light footsteps of Natasha reveal themselves to after you manage to give Bucky what you imagine she'd deem as the appropriate amount of distance. Non-threatening. The expression you'd expect Sam to have and the expression you think Natasha would carry should be completely different, but not today.

Her lower lip is tightly pulled in, her eyes controlled, green and clear. The concern they try to contain would be visible to anyone. You feel overwhelmed, throat suddenly gone dry.

You point out the obvious. “You followed me.”

She's watching your face, lips pressed together as she keeps in step with you. Her civilian clothes match yours— loose sweatshirt, comfy jeans and decent walking shoes. Sensible.

“Sam was worried,” she explains, watching with a critical eye. One wrong move, and you're afraid she'll find an in, tear you apart with the things you don’t want to hear. “You didn't show up for your run.” She shrugs slightly, easy. One side of your mouth quirks up in a halfhearted smile until Natasha continues.

"What are you going to do, Rogers?"

Her voice is gravelly next to you as she walks along, casual for all of Brooklyn to see, and the _what are you doing, Rogers?_ being implied is also clear, clear as her eyes. Goes without saying. A few more squeaks of her heel and she lightly grazes her arm against yours. It is not an accident.

Natasha’s heart-shaped face is tilted up towards yours, closer than you’d expected. You can see the worried creases, the exhausted lines. Some you know you yourself put there; some of them the two of you share. Others you will never know where they came from or why.

There is a debriefing hours later in Washington, and you argue that Bucky is not a threat, because the person who looked at you today was someone who just wanted to be left alone. Natasha is silent, not quite agreeing or disagreeing. The impression of a specter, unbiased. Sam sternly explains that while Steve may have a point, he doesn’t think they should let him just go off the grid either.

“Sooner or later, he’s going to need help.” Sam crosses his arms, settling into his chair. He’s speaking directly to you.

“Natasha can keep track of him. Let us know when he’s ready.” You turn to her. She accepts. No one expected you to give the task to anyone but yourself, but Sam seems to approve.

Later, Sam reminds you that Bucky will come home when he’s ready— if anyone left in this world has faith in Bucky who isn't named Steve Rogers, it's Sam Wilson. While he's cautious and realistic, Sam came to realize he was wrong— there may be something worth saving.

Sam won't apologize for his honesty, but still looks somber when he’s right. He points out the blind spot you _sort of_ have when it comes to Bucky. Nothing else is mentioned. Nothing Sam does after that suggests he knows you are in love.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky looked at you in the helicarrier, in what feels like a different era, he saw something worth saving, too. Even if he couldn't remember what that was.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you allow yourself to hope a little bit more today than you did yesterday.

 

* * *

 

“It's my fault,” you admit miserably to Bucky, to James. “I asked you to follow me.”

He paces around the room, wearing that shade of blue that makes you ache. It was probably an accident, Bucky probably thought nothing of it when he picked up that shirt from God knows where. The thought doesn’t comfort you at all.

(It’s been weeks since you’ve asked Natasha to watch him, and it only took a few days after that until Bucky, who sometimes prefers to be called James, left her a note, asking to speak to you. He hardly spoke, mostly argued that he didn’t need a babysitter, but it made you smile even when he told you to stop.)

Your eyes trace the blue, like a pendulum, in this week’s safe house (he won’t leave New York, though). Back and forth across the loose wood floor, a pace that you could count time on. The buildup is unbearable with worry— he might be mad, he might walk out and be done. Part of you wishes you could say there was no giving up, you’d chase Bucky until the end but if there really was no bringing him home, you could let him go. For one last time, you could manage it even if it feels like betrayal.

Bucky— James— can't remember everything yet, can't remember the reasons he did things, from what he’s told you. That doesn’t erase the fact you asked him. Doesn't matter he consented, you just had to ask in the first place. You escorted him to his own death, and you’ll get what’s been coming to you. All you can do is wait a bit longer.

“You think you would’ve made it on your own?”

The question is unexpected, and before you can even really process it, to come up with an answer, he says there's not enough room for two sad mopes here. Either you leave, or get off this self-pity train.

You cringe at the imagery, but you start to forgive yourself. A small step. For the both of you.

 

* * *

 

The moment the words: “— so, do you still love me?” come out of his mouth, you want to sock Bucky Barnes in the face for all the wrong reasons.

“You mean you knew about it this whole time?” Whispering, like it's still secret even if it apparently never was.

The dismissive shrug Bucky responds with makes the urge to give him a real nice shiner reignite. You let the shock wash over you, making you light-headed and you groan, rubbing your eyes, squeezing the bridge of your nose.

“Are you trying to tell me a lifetime of debate and angst was for nothing?” You peek through your fingers as Bucky’s mouth curls. He tries to keep his face innocent but you both know what that means.

“Thought it went without saying, Steve.” And he manages to assemble somewhat of a wide-eyed doe look for a moment longer before a playful grin takes its place. It's softer, less confident. Bucky is still trying it on for size, but it resembles something familiar. The old neighborhood, the buildings in Brooklyn you used to pass every day.

The response confirms what you believed long ago, that the two of you were separate but one. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for a change, a chance.

 _When he breaks up with Jacqueline_ , you told yourself in high school, which became _after we move out, after he comes back to Brooklyn, after the war, I’ll finally tell him. I’ll—_

You smile, a challenge. His eyes flash to yours. “I mean, I can wait another 70 years, if you want—”

Bucky sobers up quickly, shakes his head as he forces the humor back into his expression. His toothy grin throws off cockiness and confidence as he asks you to wait.

His face is flushed, his blue eyes sad with something you don’t think you can identify with. It runs deep, and is so apologetic and so true to James Buchanan Barnes that it doesn't make sense when Bucky is the last person who should be sorry.

Settling, you accept. This is new and frightening, and will never be brought up again. The elephant in the room, with you consciously aware you’re not crazy— Bucky can see it to.

Unexpectedly, Bucky does speak up.

“We’re— you're fine with it? Never saying anything?”

Natasha once told you you’re a terrible liar. The smile you pull on your face says it all: you would have been okay, but you would have never been _okay_. “But Buck, I swear. I’d never breathe a word— if I’d known—”

He cuts you off with a “yeah.” There’s a whirring sound. Bucky grits his teeth. He tells you how you haven’t changed. Instead of relief, there is only frustration.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes the new nightmares consist of Bucky changing the trajectory for just one shot, lodging a bullet in your spine and you just sit back and watch the helicarriers activate. You are nothing more than a passenger here.

But you're not afraid of Bucky: you are just scared of the moment when the realization suddenly hits and he knows exactly what he's done. The look of horror. The slow avalanche.

(Because Bucky always comes back, and you are a weapon, a device, to make him suffer.)

In the dream, you are a spectator. You are up there to watch. It is not like Natasha in the meeting with Fury in D.C. You are biased, and cannot help Bucky here.

 

* * *

 

The one that makes your skin crawl the most is this:

Everything happens the same, and you know you're supposed to be unconscious; you don't remember Bucky coming in after you in the Potomac. But there was no doubt when you woke up in the hospital bed who was responsible.

Somehow, you're aware now in the dream. The murky depths that pull you down, and the glimmer of the sun on the water’s surface is so far and you can't see from one eye, it must be swollen—

But Bucky isn't coming anytime soon. Bucky can't save you here. You keep sinking but you never reach the bottom. Bucky’s not coming. You are suffocating, your head is going to explode, you will drift again for another 70 years, dimly aware of time and just like the dream you used to have where you could feel Bucky’s hands, you wake up with the phantom sensations of his fist colliding with bone, the press of his body on top of yours as you closed off his air.

 

* * *

 

Marriage meant forever when you were growing up, but it didn’t take long for your trusting childish mind until you noticed that only some really meant it when they said eternity.

There were few that struck you as being a single unit. Across the street, the couple who ran the grocery store. The man and woman who always sat in the back pew at church.

When you were sick and your ma was pulling an extra shift, she asked a family friend to check up on you. She had gray hair, always pulled up tightly, and soft-skin that was the most wrinkled and saggy around her mouth. She wore tiny-floral print dresses in shades of gray and yellow. She told you stories colored by her accent you couldn’t place about how her husband had travelled with her from the “old country” she never specified. There is undying love in her eyes, sometimes annoyance but over all fondness for the man who’s taken to following her across land and sea for over 50 years.

There you heard for the first time about a nation of two and what it means to discover your other half. Not everyone can find it, but you understood. You thought of Bucky, your best friend Bucky, and you even told her that.

The surprised look fades into apprehension, eventually the old wife telling you with a sad crinkle in her eye that it might be best to keep this to yourself for now.

And so you did, for longer than the average human life.

(Or, at least, you _thought_ you did.)

 

* * *

 

“Was it ever real?” he breaks the silence, and you move to face him.

You've been sitting in his hideout for the better half of the day, and it's twilight time now, the colors warm and dark as they sneak in through the cracks of his wood-barricaded windows.

“Was what real?”

He shifts uncomfortably, huffs a breathe like _c'mon Stevie, you're supposed to know what I'm thinking_ , and disappointment churns your gut as you have to admit to yourself _no, I'm not so sure what this Bucky is thinking all the time_.

Someday you will, but now you're struggling just to keep up with dissociated fragments of thoughts, twitches of his mouth that are lost to you. But you're willing to learn, soak in this new language you have found within Bucky. Learn the triggers and the nose scrunches, gain fluency.

You give up on him explaining, and lean forward, elbows on your knees as you make yourself look away. His kitchen is empty, most of the appliances don't work, and you're pretty sure the toaster is a fire hazard. You contemplate going out and bringing takeout. Maybe Buck would like that. He’s made a lot of progress, remembers more and makes jokes instead of lashing out when his memory fails him. He’s not an alley-cat, hissing at the world and even calls you on the phone you wanted him to have.

(“In case something happens,” you explain, and he grunts, explains that he’s pretty sure someone with his experience can manage himself. He takes the phone anyway.

“Or if you just want to talk.” The offer is given hopefully.

Bucky keeps a straight face when he asks who the hell would he even want to call, and your expression falls for a second before he cracks a dry laugh.)

This has become your life: Bucky, hot or cold, fighting whether he thinks he deserves to have you around or not. Calling you every other day some weeks, even if it’s just to inform you about another thing that’s changed since their New York. On days like today, he asks you to come visit like you two are just good buddies. Then, there are also the weeks that can go by where you don’t hear a peep.

Those weeks are fewer and less frequent now. You think Natasha and Sam has something to do with it. The interventions, heart-to-heart assassin chitchats. Trips to the VA.

Someday you want to live in the same city again. Someday, you want Bucky to have a home instead of hiding away in abandoned houses and forgotten Hydra bases. If he let you, you’d play the radio and hold your sweetheart, properly cheek to cheek while he makes smartass comments about your dancing. For now, you notice that Bucky has started staying in places that closer resemble a normal living environment (running water, no more alleys or empty basements) and has lived in this particular location for the better part of a month. Someday, you want Bucky to settle down, and you would like him to settle down with you.

(“But only if you want to— want— _me_.”)

Bucky shifts in the only other chair in the hideout (apartment?) and you remember how when he first took you here to talk, it was a bad day, and he tried to warn you to stay away. There was only ever the one chair back then. Once he was convinced he couldn't shake you, the next time you came over another chair had appeared. It didn’t match any of the other furniture, and one of the legs was shorter than the other three, but it brought a smile to your face. The sight of the chair felt like a victory. It felt like a step in the right direction.

("Wipe that grin off your face, Rogers," he barked, only able to eye you for a moment before turning away. "It ain't a throne. Just thought it'd... look nice. Probably diseased anyway.")

“His face wasn't real.”

You're about as startled as you can get anymore when he continues out of the blue, and you realize instantly his meaning.

“Buck, you aren't like Schmidt.”

Flesh fingers massage over his metal wrist, the plates shifting up and down like a ripple, a shiver. You don't understand why it does that, but it takes your breathe away a little.

He notices you're staring, and you look up to watch his neutral face before he tucks his left arm away, rubs the back of his neck.

“I dunno,” he begins again. “I had a lot of dreams about it, after my first time with Zola.”

You remember that. The paranoia. Asking if you were going to change. _You don't have one of those, do you?_ Bucky poking at your face, like it was a joke, but you could see how real these fears were, and you pressed his hands firmly against your cheek, dragged the other one to your neck and rested it there, looking for the nonexistent seam together.

“Hey, you forget? Wasn’t the case with me, but if you don't believe it, you can always check again.” You force yourself to grin. “Didn't stop you the first time.”

“I believe you.” The response is too quick and earnest, and your smile doesn’t feel as mechanical anymore. Warmth spreads, inward to out.

“Well,” you let out quietly, touched as you lean back in the chair again, cocking your head away from him.

He looks at his feet. “When it started, I used to be conscious enough near the end of their procedures. I remember seeing my ribs. They were all…”

He flicks his metal wrist, gesturing your attention to it. “Probably to support my arm. Nobody there took the time to explain it. Used to think…” He smiles self deprecatingly. It's too sharp, the corners of his mouth becoming edges that are new to you. “Used to think they took _me_ outta _me_. Put my brain in this ... thing. Like a robot.”

He stretches his feet out in front of him, presses his right arm over and across his eyes. He’s mumbling in Russian in a breathy voice, but you hear “ _looney bin_ ”, and a comment in English about “ _all those damn drugs_ ”. Somewhere far in the back of your mind, a file from Kiev whispers about dealing with the subject through his hallucinations.

“Sounds like all those books you used to read, Buck.” Your interruption is nothing but an attempt to lighten the mood. It works. His face softens a bit.

“Maybe they rotted my brain like you said they would, after all,” he says wistfully, lifting his arm to glance over.

“You should’ve listened to me more when you had the chance.”

“—you're one to talk.”

You find the quiet more comfortable, less uneasy this time until he asks again, "But I'm not a robot, am I?" and the unspoken _what if Bucky Barnes never existed? Am I real_ ?, and your brain races, you feel hurt, you want to say a million things but the first one that sparks in your brain comes out as “Want me to show you?”  

And, _yes_ — he focuses on you, looking sullen and afraid to ask. Like a nervous child who thinks his answer is the wrong one. His eyes are scared and giving you permission, so you get up, cross the distance with caution and crouch down.

He's stopped looking at you, can't seem to do that for too long nowadays but it's getting better (just like everything else). Slowly your fingers reach his arm— his left arm, and you run your palm over it.

“How's that feel?” you breathe.

“Just pressure,” he croaks, as though the kindness has left him winded. You nod and proceed up his arm, onto his shoulders. You know the fleshy scars are there, but his shoulder is still hard. You already know they had to take muscles out. They replaced it with something harsher. There are notes scratched out in Cyrillic documenting this.

“Feel that?”

“Pressure.”

You never break contact, just trail your right hand down until it’s on his chest, settling on his heart. Fitted between Bucky’s legs, his heart rate blooms under your spread fingertips, and you revel in the sensation. _Bucky’s here, Bucky’s here,_ each pulse reminds you and yours races to catch up, but that can wait.

“What's that like?”

He shrugs, and tells you he can feel it. His chest is hard, and you wonder how much of Bucky’s original bone structure was left behind; all of the Winter Soldier’s files are brief. Tony should be able to help when the time comes.

You straighten your legs, lean closer and he looks at you questioningly. You wait for permission. The nose of the man you love nuzzles yours, his eyes nearly closed.  Eventually you tuck back the hair that’s in his face. You want to see him. Try not to crowd into his space as you kiss him. It's hardly a brush of lips, but he opens his mouth anyway, hot breath against your skin and you proceed to kiss the corners of his red mouth, whisper into his cheek a litany of _can you feel this, can you feel this_ that are no longer questions as he closes his eyes. Bucky swallows heavily, so you kiss his tired eyelids, enjoy the texture of his stubble when you kiss the perfect cleft in his chin, and Bucky mumbles _yeah,_ and _yeah,_ over and over again with breathy, shuddering sighs. He jolts a little as your cheek glides across his, never releasing, and he must feel your brow furrow because he tells you in a shaking voice that _your eyelashes, your fucking long eyelashes,_ and _ticklish, they feel_ — 

When you pull back, his eyes are shinier than before, and if your hands find a way to his ribs and down his sides, if you tickle him within an inch of crying for all the right reasons, you're pretty sure, you tell him, that robots aren't supposed to cry. Welcome to the boring human club.

He smacks you, and you know. You got your point across.

 

* * *

 

Finally, you get your wish: you take Bucky’s place.

At first it’s you who holds the scalpel. Standing over Bucky, you look at his bloody nub where an arm ought to be. Bucky looks dead, carved from ice, when it hits you— he needs you, you can protect him, keep him warm. You don’t have to hurt him anymore. The scalpel is placed on the makeshift operating table by what you disconnectedly thought of as your hand. Hand with a bloody scalpel, hand that hurt Bucky.

Instantly you volunteer, shout “take me, not him” and your vision is overcome with dark splotches that bleed out as you collapse. It’s Coney Island, you have no feet to land on and your stomach is in free fall. You cannot tell if Bucky is alive or dead, the panic the only buzzing in your head until a whole different source of electricity rages through your body. Foundation shaken, jarred loose.

The house is made of metal, but it looks like a body. It is no one’s home, but there’s a vague awareness that this is your body and it harbors nothing but holds a blade. Not a scalpel. The blade is red. Reflective surfaces tell you a story you don’t know the beginning of, but something is _wrongwrongwrong_ but it never sticks, can’t stick and don’t say anything because you did this for someone, it was your choice and he must have been damn worth it ("he?") and you wish you knew, if you just had something to make it all bearable—

“Steve,” a voice shakes you awake. It will not be the last time.

 

* * *

 

At the beginning of this new life, a life you felt lost in as you tried to navigate all the new hurdles, you realized you were loyal to no man or country in the end. Only to your man, larger than life. Your world.

But he was gone. No one gave you directions on how to move on. How to be a man without a country.

(You think back to the woman, half of a nation, and wonder whatever happened to her. The inevitable you hadn’t considered back then.)

 

* * *

 

The leather of Bucky’s couch is the perfect shade of brown to hide dirt, but the quarter and nickel sized holes are harder to ignore. Back against it, you recline. Slowly, the shitty apartment with a lease under a fake name gets filled with your own books. Countlessly, you’ve offered to take Bucky to the library, but he insists on borrowing from you with a trouble-making grin. You’re half-way convinced it’s an elaborate plan to trick you into the belief you've moved in. 

Wearing your shirt and the sweatpants he swore went missing months ago, Bucky breathes. Bucky is home. He isn’t articulate in the language of touch anymore, but today he shares the couch with you, your feet tucked under his thighs. The quiet isn’t interrupted by a phone call this time, but by a quiet reassurance.

“Even when we weren't,” Bucky explains, “we were.”

You can feel your left eyebrow raise automatically, laughter suppressed. “Is that so?”

“Can be now,” Bucky shrugs. “If you'll have me.”

Any trace of a question is absent because it isn't a question, will never be a question. It's the inevitable, something carved into the stars, scratched into the universe long before you or Bucky were ever born.

“I guess,” is the only reply you can give. It makes Bucky smile fiercely, and he moves in close and you _know_ you’re going to pay for it in the sweetest way.

**Author's Note:**

> I know second-POV is not a normal thing or a fan-favorite, but if you got through this, yay! I'm glad!


End file.
